


If You Loved Me Like I Love You

by Teddy (I_am_lampy)



Series: Standalone Stories [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Dirty Talk, Light Angst, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Rimming, Top John Watson, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-01-19 21:38:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12418677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/Teddy
Summary: I put my violin and bow away, and then turn around and say, "John, it's time we discussed your desire to have sex with me." I'm pleased by the look of shock on his face, and even more pleased by the way he grips the legs of his trousers when I take off my dressing gown, and let it slither off my arms as I step towards him, my eyes never leaving his.





	1. Chapter 1

It's dark out, and the curtains are open, reflecting the room behind me as I play the violin. The door downstairs opens, and John's footsteps thud on the stairs as he jogs up. He's had a good day, then. I don't pause in my playing when he comes bursting into the room.

"It's bloody cold in here! Why've you got the curtains open? You're just letting all that cold seep into the room. And it wouldn't kill you to turn the gas on in the fireplace. It's not like you've got to build it up with logs the old-fashioned way or anything. It'd be nice to come in out of the freezing cold, and find a warm flat waiting for me."

Despite his complaints, I can see him smiling softly as he hangs up his jacket. He's wearing the cobalt blue cashmere cardigan I gave him at Christmas over a white knit button-down. (His other Christmas presents were a Donegal tweed cardie in the classic Irish style, a navy Paul Smith cable knit V-neck sweater, and a Corliani cashmere cable knit in plum, which does _amazing_ things for his eyes).

Over the three or so years of our acquaintance, I've steered him away from ordering his clothes and shoes off the ASOS website (because _honestly_ ), and guided him through the process of shopping for men's clothes in person, where he might try them on (and let me gauge the fit). My only problems are John's unwillingness to pay more than £400 for an _entire_ season's shopping, and his intractable obsession with checked or plaid button-down shirts, which he often slips into his wardrobe underneath my watchful eye, generally when bulk-food shopping at Asda, like a lower-class moth drawn to a discount flame. _Horrid._

John turns down the lights in the kitchen, and sets a cup of tea on the desk beside me, before sitting in his chair with his own cup of tea. He sighs in pleasure when he settles himself into his chair. He's turned on the gas in the fireplace, and the fire highlights the left side of his face, his other half fading into shadow, and I wonder if the skin on the lit-up part of his face would be warmer than the shadowed side. In my mind, I trace both sides of his face with my fingers, my thumb pressing into the shallow dimple on his chin.

I tear my mind away from those thoughts.

As I've gradually exposed the man beneath the frumpy clothes, I've discovered that John is much slimmer than his old clothes made him seem, and his height doesn't at all detract from the elegant line of his body. In relation to his height, his shoulders are broad and taper to narrow hips, his body blessed with lean, wiry musculature. I've seen him in nothing but his pants a few times (half of which were well-timed invasions of his bedroom). His glutes are finely muscled, unlike mine which remain plump as a woman's bottom no matter how thin I am. If John were starving to death, I'd offer up my arse for him to eat—

My bow skips gratingly across the strings, sour notes making me cringe, as my mind conjures the image of John's hands spreading my arse cheeks to—

_Christ._

This time, I purposefully strangle ugly sounds out of my violin before letting it and my bow drop to my side. I stare at John's reflection in the window. He's been listening to me play, not even pretending to read, just sipping his tea and smiling fondly in my direction, but now his brows draw together in confusion as I seethe at the window, gripping the neck of my violin far too tightly.

John wants me desperately, but he would never allow himself to acknowledge it, much less attempt to satisfy his desire. He's not _gay_. Like that matters. Labels are ridiculous. People want to organize everything into neat little lines and slap on a label. I suppose they must or else they wouldn't be able to cope. John is obviously bisexual, but suffers from what I call auto-homophobia. He has no problem with other people's sexuality, but his reaction to being assumed gay is almost violent, as though it's okay for other people but not for himself. He's never discussed his parents' reaction to discovering Harry was gay, but it's clear his parents didn't approve. How very much like John to be so predictable. So _dull_.

John is predictable in so many ways, yet he continues to surprise me, but he frustrates me! These women! God, the _women_ , these stupid, insipid women he continues to date. _I need normality,_ he says. Why does he stay here, then? Why does he continue to do my bidding, no matter how outrageous? Why does he care so much about my health, if he doesn't care about me? _Eat that before you drop from low blood sugar, Sherlock. The case is solved so go lie down, Sherlock. Have you been smoking, Sherlock?_

This parade of women has got to stop—I refuse to tolerate it any longer, and the solution is obvious—we'll have sex with each other.

I put my violin and bow away, and then turn around and say, "John, it's time we discussed your desire to have sex with me." I'm pleased by the look of shock on his face, and even more pleased by the way he grips the legs of his trousers when I take off my dressing gown, and let it slither off my arms as I step towards him, my eyes never leaving his. I slide my hand up under my shirt, slowly trailing fingers across my stomach, which is sensitive, and then up further to my chest, where I graze a thumb over my right nipple. The gasp of pleasure and the way my eyes slide momentarily closed are not exaggerated. John's eyes darken with arousal, and his tongue comes out to slide along his bottom lip. When I take my other hand, and trace the line of my erection with the tips of my fingers on the outside of my bottoms, he bites his lip, and I find myself longing to have that lip between _my_ teeth.

"Sher—"

"I want you, John," I say, unnerved by the breathlessness in my voice, and I bend over him, picking up one of his hands, and tugging on it, trying to pull him up, but he resists, and says in a deep, commanding voice, "Stop," and I let go of his hand, and step back.

He pushes himself to his feet, and I sway towards him, but he holds out his hand. "I don't want to have sex with you," he says quietly.

"And this?" I cup his crotch, the erection straining against the denim, and rub my heel up and down a few times. "This tells quite a different story."

John's hand circles my wrist, and he pulls my hand away gently but firmly, and says softly, "I didn't mean I'm not—obviously, I'm attracted to you, I mean you've—clearly you've deduced it." He lets go of my wrist, and crosses his arms over his chest, defensive, closed off, and there's a swell of nausea in my gut, and a painful tightness in my chest, and he says, "It would be—it wouldn't work, Sherlock. I can't just have sex with you, and then—I know you'd push me aside during cases, and—it's tempting, but you'd be able to live without it and I—no. I can't."

John stares at me for a minute, and, finally, he turns on his heel and flees to his room. I feel entirely too vulnerable in this moment—my skin can't contain the multitude of feelings inside me—passion, fear, anger, longing, hurt—I'm completely undone by the knowledge that I have fallen painfully in love with John Watson.

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't meant for this to be so angsty. It was supposed to be just fun toppy Sherlock seducing John, buuuuut...John and Sherlock said, "No," and then fucked off somewhere else until I agreed to leave in the angst.
> 
> There's lots of smut in Chapter 4 so, you know. Enjoy!

* * *

John doesn't mention my disastrous seduction attempt, but it hangs between us. There had been casual touches between us sometimes, nothing lingering or particularly inviting, but I had no idea how much we had grown comfortable with it, until it stopped. If I was in the kitchen, and John needed to get by, he went around the table. If I tried reaching over him to get something, he'd scurry out of my way. He didn't sit on the couch with me when he was watching telly. He didn't lean his hip against the table, and chatter about inconsequential things while I stared through my microscope. When evening fell, he didn't linger in the sitting room, but retired to his bedroom with a falsely cheerful _Good night_.

A week passes, and I grow irritated and snappish, and he becomes conciliatory and far too tolerant. Two weeks—I'm only home when he's at work, and try to leave the flat before he comes home. I go through my inbox, and answer every email, and if a client needs to be interviewed, I meet them at their home or a neutral location. When there's nothing else to do, I roam London to avoid him, welcoming the biting cold. I'm not sure who I'm punishing—myself or John.

A month later, John goes to Tesco's to do the shopping, and he comes home whistling. I look up from my microscope, and suck in a breath that causes him to look up. I stare at him, and his eyes slide away. He clears his throat. He looks oddly guilty.

"I asked you to clear some of this off," he says, nodding towards my chemistry equipment.

I get to my feet. "You met someone," I say, trying for uninterested, but my voice wavers.

"Yes," John says quietly, and then attempts to smile, but just shrugs weakly. He sets the bags down on the floor, and begins moving the beakers and petri dishes carefully away, opening up a space. Without looking up, he says, "You could help me, you know." He sounds both angry, and regretful, and I don't think he's talking about cleaning off the table anymore.

I swallow thickly, open my mouth to speak, lick my lips nervously. John stares at the ground, unspeaking, unmoving, and with my chest so tight I feel I can't draw a breath, the words come out trembling when I say, "We've hardly saved our—"

"Don't," John says, looking up at me, his mouth a white line in his face, a muscle in his jaw clenching and unclenching. I stare at it to avoid his eyes which are glittering wetly. He breathes in and out, shaky, but I lift my chin defiantly, building up the wall that I'd allowed to crumble in the face of John's improbable friendship, and say coldly, "I was here first, so I think it only fair that you be the one to move out."

John's face goes dark and cold, the way it does when he's aiming his gun at someone. His nostrils flare. He says, "I should move out because you're jealous I met someone?"

I raise my chin, and offer up the truth. "I regret that my—my overtures were unwelcome, but you'd said you would want—" I try to swallow, try to clear the thick and miserable lump that's settled there, and when I can finally work up enough saliva to continue, I say, "You said you'd want more than I would be willing to give, and I was— _am_ —willing to give more, but since then you've not—there's nothing in your behavior that would indicate—I would've said it before now, had I believed it would make any difference in the end."

"Said what?" John asks, staring at me suspiciously.

"You're right. I'm jealous. I'm viciously, hatefully, irrationally jealous because I'm in love with you, John, so you'll have to forgive me if I can't bear to watch you go out with someone else," I say. "Eventually, you'll fall in love and get married, and then you'll leave anyway. I prefer to suffer the separation now, rather than later, when it will be all the more painful."

John jerks back in shock. He closes his eyes, shakes his head, and then opens them, a harsh exhale bursting from his mouth. I escape to my bedroom, lock my door and burrow under the blankets and pillows, curling up on my side, my eyes wet and bottom lip trembling. It makes me absolutely _sick_ to imagine John with someone else, to imagine him falling in love, getting married, moving out of our _home_. A whimper escapes me and I press my face into my pillow to quiet the sound of my sorrow.

~*~

I fall asleep, or at least I must have, because my bladder wakes me, but it feels like it's only been a minute since I lay down. I wish, for the thousandth time, that I wasn't beholden to my body's needs, especially since a dreary lassitude has stolen over me, and I hate the idea of getting up. After a while, though, I have to get up, and standing seems to make it all the more urgent, so I speed walk into the loo, and my body relaxes as I empty my bladder. I wash my hands, and then try to go back to bed, but I can't sleep, and I'm bored, and I refuse to hide in my room any longer.

Still, it's cowardice that prevents me from striding into the sitting room with confidence, and forces me to peek around the corner of the kitchen to see if John's around, but he's not. The flat is silent. I strain to hear if John's in his room, but there's nothing. Just the sounds of traffic and people outside. I try to ignore my disappointment. I meander sullenly through the kitchen. The shopping has been put away, and my scientific equipment has been neatly herded into separate piles. The washing up has been done, the dishes already dry where they sit on the drainboard. The gas is turned low in the fireplace—it hadn't been on when John came home.

I shuffle into the sitting room, fatigue settling over me, and I make for the couch which is closer than my bed. When I manage to work up some energy, I'll call Lestrade, and demand a case. The holidays brought plenty of crime to the city, but it's late February now, and apparently all the murderers have inconveniently gone on holiday.

I intend to plop face down on the couch, but someone clears their throat and it startles me, and then I see it's not _someone_ —it's John. He's slouched down in his chair with two fingers of his left hand supporting his cheek, his thumb cupping his chin, and there's a glass of scotch in his hand.

"Hello," he says, and when I continue to stare, my brow furrowed, he raises his eyebrows and gives me a sly smile. "Thought I'd run off, did you?" When I don't respond, he points his glass towards my chair, and says, "Sit down."

I walk slowly over to my chair, and gingerly lower myself into it. I pull my dressing gown around me, and we watch each other.

"You frighten me," he says, and although he's not drunk, there's a languid quality to his voice. I wait, watching him warily, for him to clarify his statement. He licks his lips, and shrugs. "I should've taken you up on your offer that night, but—you frighten me."

After a moment, I realize he's waiting for me to speak, so I say, "What do you mean by that?"

"When you said you wanted to have sex, I thought you were just bored. I mean, you've never had any interest in sex, at least not since I've known you—and for me, well—I thought it would just be sex for you, something you could easily walk away from, and I knew that I couldn't. Just walk away, that is, and my, um—the feelings I have for you wouldn't matter—so I thought, at any rate. I knew I'd be miserable living with you and not being able to have you any longer, and you'd grow even more irritated with my misery, and then you'd kick me out. But then today, you kicked me out for the exact opposite reason."

"You don't have to go," I say quietly.

"I'm not going," he says, and raises an eyebrow as though challenging me to say differently.

"Good," I say slowly, nodding my head twice. "And just for the record—I need you, too. And I—I wouldn't have just walked away—but I understand why you might—" I struggle with the rest of the sentence while John watches me curiously. Finally, I spit out, "—want to see _other people_. You—you're right about me probably ignoring you during cases. I ignore you already during cases, unless I need your help, so that's not—"

John sets his glass on the table beside him, and stands. He swaggers over to my chair, and uses his knees to knock my legs closed, then he climbs up on my chair, straddling my thighs. In this position, I have to look up at him, and I open and close my mouth like a fish, before choking out, "What are you doing?" even though I know perfectly well what he's doing.

John sighs softly, happily, and licks his lips slowly— _oh god_ —and his fingertips come up and trace my cheek and jaw, down to my chin, where he rests his thumb. His eyes are heavy-lidded, and the weight of his body comforts me. My hands have moved to rest on the top of his knees without my realizing it. His thumb presses against my chin, the pressure parting my lips, and then he leans in, and breathes, "I'm kissing you. That's what I'm doing."


	3. Chapter 3

_"I'm kissing you. That's what I'm doing," John says._

He presses his lips against mine, a chaste first kiss—a simple brush of the lips, and his tongue darting out to briefly taste my top lip. I let my arms slide around his waist, and pull him close. John is a _fantastic_ kisser. His mouth dominates mine, but it doesn't feel as though I'm being assaulted.

"Does that mean you forgive me?" I ask him when he pulls away. He strokes my cheek with his fingertips, watching them trace down my jaw, before he lifts his eyes back to mine, and says, "There's nothing to forgive. I'm the one who made a hash of things. I let myself get scared. Take off your clothes."

"That's quite a non-sequitur," I say, raising my eyebrows. "Shouldn't we _talk_ about this first?"

His eyes are soft and dark, affection and lust mixing easily. I want to lick his lips, and the inside of his mouth, and press my nose in his hair and armpit and groin, and take his cock in my mouth, swallow down the essence of John.

"Don't be nervous. I promise I won't be gentle," John says with a saucy smirk. 

"I'm _not_ nervous," I say belligerently, frowning.

"It's fine to be nervous," he says, eyes crinkling at their corners. 

"I know it's fine," I snap, and only when he breathes out a laugh against my cheek do I recall the night he moved in, Angelo's enthusiasm to see me with someone else, his assumption John was my date, and John's vehement denial thereof. 

"Charming," I say with a glare, but it  _is_ charming.  _John_ is charming. I've forgotten what we were talking about, but I'll be dammed if I let John know it, and anyway, he seals my silence (or, at least, my ability to form actual words) when he tilts my chin up, ducks his head,  and licks his way from my Adam's apple to where my neck meets up with my shoulder, right over my pulse. I automatically tilt my head back, inviting him to take what he wants. His tongue begins swirling its way up my throat to my ear.

"Anyway  you were saying?" John asks roughly, right before he engulfs my entire ear in his hot, wet mouth.

"Ah, well, ohhhh," I moan while the end of his tongue slides from the helix of my ear down to the attached lobule. Unlike me, John has lovely, plump earlobes, and I have wiles away a dozen hours or more focused solely on how I might lick and suck on them were I to be offered the chance. "Oh, fuck it, I've forgotten," I finally confess. 

"Are you confessing that  _I_ have silenced the great Sherlock Holmes?"

"Shut up. Kiss me." 

John's lips are trail wetly along my jaw, his top lip catching on my stubble, and when he gets to my chin, he plows the fingers of his left hand through my hair, around to the back, and uses a handful to _yank_ my head back, exposing more of my throat. Then his teeth close over the tendon to the left of my suprasternal divot, and he bites it hard enough for me to cry out—not words, just sound, my body instinctively twisting away. John holds me in place with his hands on my shoulders. They're strong for being so small, and I can only imagine the delicate way in which they would fit inside me, open my body up.

Up to this point, my prick has been unhurriedly filling with blood, but now I feel the wet throb of my pulse as it comes to full hardness as John alternates licking and sucking on the bite he made. It's now uncomfortably imprisoned by my trousers. I fit my hand between us in order to adjust it, but John grabs my wrist. 

In my addled state, I blurt out, "Good God, have mercy!  _Please_ let me unfasten my trousers!"

A sultry smile lazily makes its way across John's mouth until he's looking at me with such blistering hunger that I have to lower my eyes so I’m not seared blind.

"So gorgeous," John, murmurs, cupping my cheek reverently. "I’m going to my bedroom to grab lube. There are quite a few things that I have fantasized about doing to you, and when I come back, you’re going to be naked and waiting on your bed for me. Okay?"

What can I say to that except _yes_? My devotion to John is carved on my bones, and the muscle of my heart, and underneath my skin, and I am bared to the brilliance of his star.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry these chapters are so small but I'm trying to keep everything in my life manageable by committing to smaller commitments of my time and energy. My emotional and physical health has been sorely tried the past 5 months, but I really love writing these stories and sharing them with you. So, you are stuck with shorter chapters, but the trade off is that I'm less likely to rush the ending!


	4. Chapter 4

The minute John disappears through the sitting room door on his way upstairs, I spring from my chair and race to my bedroom. I'm loath to appear too eager or too obedient. Although, really, I'm not fooling John and certainly not myself.

Out of the twenty-five words John spoke before disembarking from my lap, only three of them registered as important to me at the time:  _lube, naked_ and  _bed_. Once in my room, however, I become abruptly aware of what is about to transpire between us. One of us (presumably John) will be preparing the other (me, in this iteration) for anal sex. At least one—probably two, though no more than three (or four?)—fantasies I've had about my flatmate and object of my adoration will occur.

Immediately, I hit an obstacle on the road to carnal bliss and screech to a halt.

John will be putting his fingers in my arsehole, which is designed for the expulsion of fecal matter, something that one does not wish to encounter when trying to get off with someone.

 _Ugh_.

Face flushing painfully hot, I remove myself to the loo and search frantically for the items necessary to clean myself out, only I've not had sex in my own flat since John moved in here, save for once or twice in the beginning, when I could sneak someone in and out with John none the wiser. Since then, I have indulged, but never here, and obviously condoms were involved which keeps semen in and other— _stuff_ —out.

There's nothing in the loo that might act as a rectal wash. I'm still fully dressed, and John will be coming down the stairs any minute now. I start for the kitchen when I hear John's footsteps on the back stairs and leap to lock the door to the hallway. The turning of the Victorian-era tumbler on that end of the loo coincides with John's step from the staircase onto the hallway floor where his footsteps are muted by the runner, and the  _thunk_ sounds out in the sudden silence. I press myself back against the wall.

"Sherlock?" John asks uncertainly.

I cringe at the tone in his voice. The thing is—I never lock the door when I'm in the loo. The disapproval I have for anyone but John, corpses—and, occasionally, Mrs. Hudson—to be in my personal space is well known to everyone, and especially John, so it's never been an issue. He's walked in on me in various stages of undress or, ironically, performing bodily functions one can only perform in the loo.

Now, though, all this lack of privacy has left me—again, ironically— _shy_. I'm terrified of failing at this. There's a shuffling in the hallway and then I see John's shadow approach through my bedroom, the turn of the knob and—to my horror—John pokes his head in.

"You forgot to lock this door," he says flatly. Then his eyes soften. "Why are you not naked on your bed like I asked?" His voice is light and flirty—he's trying not to spook me, which just adds to my predicament. My face is positively  _scalding_ , and if my unsuccessful search for an impromptu enema hadn't ruined my arousal, my embarrassment right now would. I open my mouth to say something, anything, that will get John out of the bathroom so that I can think of a way to get out of this situation with my pride and mine and John's tentative love affair intact, but, of course, my great intellect fails me, and my jaw snaps shut. I slump against the wall and cover my face with my hands, shaking my head a few times.

"Hey, what's this?," he says gently, in the type of voice generally reserved for distraught children. I would be embarrassed, if I hadn't already reached the maximum allowable for that emotion. "C'mon, you. Talk to me. Whatever it is, we'll work it out together, yeah?"

"I can't!" I wail into my hands which muffles what I say to  _phmhphmh_. For the first time since childhood, I'm desperate to believe that if I just don't open my eyes, then whatever I'm afraid of will  _go away_. In this case, though, John is what I'm afraid of  _and_ what I desperately, hopelessly want, and I can't even begin to formulate an explanation of how we went from  _there_ (in the sitting room, awash in pre-coital hormones) to  _here_ (in the loo, awash with the fug of my shame) in less than five minutes.

I feel John's body right in front of mine, and my skin and bones strain towards him, but I keep them back by force of will. My hands remain resolutely over my eyes, but when John's hands close around mine, I'm unwilling to deny him. He pulls them gently away. I open my eyes reflexively and see John's wry smile.

"See? No reason to act like a blushing virgin," John says, eyes all smiles for about four seconds before his face pales and his eyes grow wide and he says, "Seriously, now, please tell me you're not—" and I quickly snap, "Of course I'm not a virgin, John."

"Right, right. That's—good. So, why all—" he gestures around us, then looks back at me with both brows raised.

"Why am I hiding in the loo?" I fill in, feeling a small smile queueing up to my lips.

"Yes. Exactly that," John says, leaning closer, leaning  _up_. I notice he's wearing his dressing gown and it's very loosely belted.

"I thought it prudent," I begin, and John murmurs, "Yeah?" while fisting his hands in my shirt. I continue, "To make sure that I—" I'm cut short by John's lips against mine. How John manages to make closed mouth kisses so filthy is beyond me. Clearly, he has special powers. When he pulls away, I manage to finish speaking, "—showered."

John's face is almost nose to nose with mine, even though he's no longer stepping on his tiptoes, and I realize that's because my lips have followed his down, and as he steps back my whole body follows. Without breaking physical contact, he draws me all the way to the bath with little kisses and licks and nips, and with only a quick glance behind him, pushes aside the shower curtain and turns on the taps.

Then, he drops his dressing gown and all the words in the world immediately vacate my brain except for  _naked_ and  _cock_ and  _John_.

"There you go," John whispers against my chin. "Feel free to touch because I intend to," and then he grabs my right hand and yanks it towards his groin where I greedily wrap it around his partially erect penis. I run a thumb over the velvety skin from midway to tip where the foreskin is still flaccid, hiding the glans. My mouth waters. I find myself barely restraining the urge to suck on this part of John, the feeling almost atavistic—something my body recognizes as  _need_ rather than just the desire to pleasure my partner. (Could it be related to breastfeeding in infancy? Scratch that. Not pillow talk, that.)

John gets my shirt off in no time, and is bending to push down my pajama bottoms, not wasting time with seduction for this part. Then he's pulling me into the hot shower as I begin stroking his cock, entranced, though there was never a doubt I'd be anything other than utterly enchanted by something John-related.

"I'm going to make sure you're nice and clean," John says, voice raised to be heard over the shower, "because I plan to do very dirty things to this body," and squeezes my arse cheeks. I'm hard now, and lightheaded, not surprising considering the extreme chemicals my brain is dumping into my body, going from the chemical dump of panic that my shame would be revealed, and John would be disgusted, to the chemical dump of lust, which isn't all that different, really, the brain itself a slave to the amygdala, which lies, hidden and protected, deep inside the brain. A bit like Mycroft—tucked up safely, bossing everyone else around and sticking his nose in everyone's business.

(Note to self:  _never_ think of Mycroft during sex.)

(Amended note to self: never think of Mycroft  _at all_ )

~*~

John's hands make quick work of cleaning me, his soapy fingers focused solely on my arse, leaving no doubt as to his intentions for this evening. We make perfunctory attempts to dry off, throwing wet towels on the floor in our haste. Inside the bedroom, I feel shy once more, ridiculous when my cock is standing up proud against my belly and John is regarding me the way I've seen lionesses regard sickly wildebeest.

"Get on your hands and knees because I plan to lick and suck at that tight hole I just spent so long cleaning out," he says, moving towards me.

I choke on my own spit, so aroused by the image that I swear I can feel a drop of pre-seminal fluid bead in the slit of my cock and roll down the underside, following the thick, pulsing vein underneath before dropping onto my balls. Meanwhile, John has reached for my arms and is pulling me towards the bed and then pushing me down so that I'm looking up at him.

"I'm going to open you up with my lips and tongue until my spit is dripping onto your balls. By the time I'm three fingers deep, you'll be begging me to come."

"Ah—erm—" I say, panting already while John climbs onto me, guiding me slowly but inexorably down.

"By the time I'm balls-deep inside you, you won't know if you're begging to come or begging me not to stop," he says, drawing a hiss of air in through his teeth. "Hell, by the time I've got my cock buried inside you, you won't even know your name anymore." He dips his head, and right next to my ear, in a lust-driven rasp, he says, "You'll know  _my_ name, though," he murmurs roughly against my ear, causing me to let out a stuttering whimper. Then he growls, "Now roll over."

I scramble to obey. John manhandles me further into position and, when he's satisfied, I'm on my forearms, arse in the air, legs spread widely to account for the height difference, cock bouncing obscenely every time we shift on the mattress. He grabs each half of my arse and kneads them, fingers digging into the flesh, making me groan weakly. I think I hear him growling right before he buries his face in my arse and I lose track of everything else except this—John's tongue and lips and fingers and the always pulsing need that I feel in my balls and my arse and my cock. John mercilessly drives the notes of my voice higher and breathier and with each whimper and squeak, each unmanly, undignified sound that falls from my lips, he growls louder and snarls harder, and attacks my arsehole as though it's a recalcitrant army private that he's been personally tasked by the Queen herself to beat into fighting order.

He's the wolf and the shepherd at the same time, and has been guiding me steadily towards our union from the moment earlier when I heard him clear his voice in what I thought was the empty sitting room. He has ravaged me all the while, first gently as I needed coaxing, but now all of that has fallen away, leaving behind only the wolf, a predator who never doubted he would bring down his prey.

There are words interspersed in the savage noises John is making, mostly muffled by my arse cheeks, and I'm not sure if he intends me to hear them or if they're for him alone. Words like  _suck, tight, hole, greedy, fuck, arse, gorgeous, hot, beautiful, adore_. Whether he means for these words to be spoken aloud or not, they only add to the spiralling, twisting frenzy of pleasure inside me. I would jerk myself off except that I know I need both arms and knees to remain upright.

John is true to his word—his tongue fucks into my hole, and saliva drips and drips onto my balls. My cock weeps madly while my lungs suck in great breaths only to blow them out in hoarse, high-pitched sounds, some of them words like  _fuck, oh, John, please, god, you, dying_.

When he works a fingertip in alongside his tongue, I've already spent an eternity nonsensical, and I don't realize John has stopped until he dribbles cold lube on my already slack hole.

"Oh, god, yes, please, thank you!" I rasp desperately. "Please fuck me, please, John." I'm pushing back, using my body to beg for what I want, trying to swallow his fingers, to show that I'm  _ready_ ,  _please, go, do it!_

"Oh, I plan to," John purrs and plunges two fingers inside me, spreading them, rotating, not attempting at this point to seduce or arouse but to prepare, quickly and efficiently.

But when he gets three fingers in me, I realize with frustration that I won't even last through his preparation. "Shit, fuck, John, hurry  _hurry_  I'm going to come!"

"Sh, it's okay, settle," John says, and me over onto my back. I'm breathing shallowly and quickly, and white fairy lights dance in my peripheral vision. He soothes me, stroking sticky hands down my sides, and then he fits my feet flat against the mattress, pulling me back and up onto his thighs while also scooting forward. He fits his arms underneath my legs, the backs of my knees resting in the cradles of his elbows and bends forward over my body. He's looking down between us and I'm gripping the sheets and babbling while he puts one hand on himself and

slowly

                        pushes

                                                in

                                                                        until

                                                                                                I'm

                                                                                                                        full

(" _Oh, fuck, baby, you feel so good, fuck!"_ ) 

 

                                                                                                                        and

                                                                                    then

                                                            I'm

_coming_

I choke off a shout of disappointment (never good to let John think I'm not overjoyed to orgasm in his presence) but he must see the distress on my face because he's murmuring to me words of praise and love and telling me I'm a  _good boy_ (surely, I'll take issue with him about that as soon as my arse isn't full of his dick) and I'm dragging in grating gasps  _coming_   _flying falling dying_  and John curses,  _fuck, you're beautiful, incredible, so incredible_  and starts moving, apologizing as he does, apologizing? For what? Oh, yes, prostate sensitivity, apologizing for the sparking electric stroke of his cock over the sensitive nub of nerves inside until it becomes almost too much and I may fly apart in a shower of John ignited sparks, nothing left of me but white-hot devastation.

Then John spreads my arse cheeks once again, and buries himself deep inside me, thrusting wildly, madly, rubbing over the same couple of inches, and my whole body feels wound up tight again, my dick still hard, and I realize that I'm going to orgasm again. The cool detachment of scientific curiosity flares briefly before being subsumed by our passionate lovemaking.

John is still fucking rabidly into me, and every slam of his hips into my arse pushes a high and reedy moan out of my throat.

"John!" I cry as I feel the heated coil of orgasm starting again deep in my arse and balls and thighs and John momentarily stills with what I know is surprise before he rasps out, "Oh, fuck, Sherlock, your arse is squeezing my cock. Are you gonna come again? Fucking amazing, baby. You're gonna come again, aren't you? Touch yourself, c'mon, that's right, baby, let me hear it, let me hear how fucking hot I make you, so hot you come twice. You ever come twice before? Huh? I bet nobody else has made you fucking come twice, only me, right?"

I oblige him because he is a genius, a god, the only person capable of reducing me to such a shameless state of pure sensation and love him, and oh god  _how_  I love him. I tell him so over and over  _I love you John I love you I love you so much_ as I'm stroking myself to a second orgasm, and John says, "That's it, let me hear you, god, Sherlock,  _fuck_!" and with a final stab of his cock into my body and a shuddering wail of pleasure, John spends himself deep inside me. He's still hard inside me when my orgasm begins coalescing, pleasure being drawn in from the tops of my thighs, my balls, my cock, and inside my arse and then I'm coming hard enough to see tiny white lights spark in my peripheral vision. I collapse and John goes down with me.

In the aftermath, lying together in bed covered in sweat and semen and mutual exhaustion, I know that even if I had never fallen in love with John, he has utterly _ruined_ me for anyone else. There won't  _be_  anyone else, of course, never, and not for  _John_ , either, because he's  _mine_  and I claimed him three years ago, when I first saw him, too young to be limping, and he watched me with eager eyes and said,  _that's incredible_  and I immediately wanted to save him.

"You were magnificent," I gush, rubbing my sweaty cheek up against his, and then, gently admonishing, I murmur, "And you were worried I would get bored. Such an idiot." 

"Yeah, well," he croaks, clears his throat, and in a voice more like his own, says, solemnly, "Well, don't expect that every time," which strikes me as hilarious—my stomach clenches with laughter and John frowns, and says, "No, seriously, we'd die if we kept this up every night," and I laugh even harder, tears streaming from my eyes, and gradually, John's face loosens up despite his best efforts and he chuckles along with me.

My laughter spent, I stare at him, stunned by the look in his eyes. We were  _always_  going to end up here, I realize. How could we not? Any idiot who looked in the face of either of us would see that unassailable truth.

"I love you," I say into the sudden hush. John's eyes are so soft, so full of light. He hums in agreement, sketching a line with his thumb down my face and jaw. "Me, too," he says simply, because John knows how to focus his light, how to distill the truth. In his eyes, I see wonder and desire and love.  _Love_. I will never doubt that he loves me any less than I love him (though it can't be quantifiable; feels limitless, frankly) because in John Watson's eyes, I also see  _home_. Together here at Baker Street or apart an entire world away, he will always be my home, and I his.

 _Amazing_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, I had big chunks of this story, including this very dirty chapter, already written in October but it was lost in a parallel Dropbox universe in which it resided in the "Home" folder, rather than the "fanfic" folder, and I stumbled upon it last week when attempting to work on our tax return.
> 
> My point is that I could've satisfied y'all sooner if I'd found it sooner, but this chapter was already pretty smoking hot, but didn't include the rimming, so I ended up squashing the one I'd already written to the one I'd already written, um, already? Anyway...other than some filling in and a cursory run through the spell checker, this isn't edited and has not been Jenn'd or Katie'd either so you'll doubtless find split infinitives and run on sentences and other horrors besides. Hopefully, the rimming makes up for it.
> 
> Email me at archiveofmyown@gmail.com for any reason whatsoever.


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